Page 8 of Accidental Husband
Juliette
"Is this really necessary?" I climb onto the lifeguard stand.
"Five bucks says you're listening to one of those whiny assholes." He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his leather wallet, holds up a five-dollar bill.
I take his money. "Listen and weep."
He moves closer. His shoulder bumps mine. Then his arm. His hip. His leg.
His fingers brush my neck as he grabs an earbud.
His lips curl into a smile. "Let me guess—"
At the same time, we say, "this isn't a whiny asshole. It's a pissed goddess."
I flip him off.
He smiles. It's a big, wide smile. A real smile. Not that any of Griffin's smiles are fake. He doesn't fake anything, including politeness.
It's a marvel he has a job, honestly. I'm not sure what he does to convince his clients to work with him. Maybe it's the gorgeous dark eyes or the dimple on his cheek or the strong shoulders.
Or, um, well, he is a good artist. And some people appreciate a guy who tells it like it is. Even if it hurts. I certainly do.
And I don't appreciate the dimple. I mean, I do, because it's my best friend's dimple. But it's not like Ilike likehis dimple. It's not like my heart is pounding against my chest from his proximity.
From the jog to the lifeguard stand, yeah? But the proximity is whatever.
Ahem.
I lean against the half-wall. Watch the setting sun turn the sky orange. It's a beautiful night. And it feels like summer. Warm air. Cool breeze. Ocean for miles.
This far south, the beach is quiet (well, quiet ish. It is August). It's just me, and Griffin, and my favorite band.
He closes his eyes. Mouths the chorus. Catches himself. Blushes.
It's a cute blush. It really is. Not because he's cute (he's attractive, but more in a hot way). Because it's rare.
Nothing rattles Griff.
His eyes meet mine. "Why don't you listen to a pissed goddess who writes quality shit?"
"Hmm, it's almost like I listen to what I enjoy."
"That's the problem."
"Is it?"
"You skipped the development stage where you acquired taste in music."
"And you skipped the one where you stopped complaining about music you hated in middle school."
"Got me there." His laugh lights up his dark eyes. Makes it easier to see the flecks of amber and honey that break up the deep coffee hue.
Not that it matters.
Yes, Griffin has gorgeous, deep, soulful eyes, but it's a simple fact.
Griffin is six feet of pure muscle. He has soulful brown eyes and lush waves every bit as beautiful as Kit Harrington's. His strong arms are covered in ink. And he's incredibly dirty.
